I am a communist. I own nothing but a dirt bike. One bag. My camera is the size of a match box. It’s probably the one freedom – freedom from stuff – I really have. There’s a star spy spot in San Christobal in the Sangre de Christos, and if you are looking up at (the laser beam from Mars) to know the dance among the stars whose fierce qualities extend to Quasars whose rage of spin contracts time itself where voices are not necessarily provoked to malice but are falling out. Voices crash. Breaking on the cliffs below like glass we are our second selves time and time again. We have a witchcraft of divided duty. A motel room. With its toilet seat tied up in ribbon. Sterilized. I am always being advised to drop mescaline in a shadowed psychic place like the motel rooms and the flashing blue neon dusted light trucker pink. Electric overhead go pop. There is only time, and time is not free, anymore than random microwaves leave a leakage not unlike the hiss from a dragon sponge. We all see what we think is real. Such as the Southern Oak Trees clocking in at 1,500 years. I have twenty of them in my backyard. Time machine this, and time machine that, but here is an archive that cold roots form as skeletons give way to dust. I am tired. I am sick. I am not dead yet. The oaks will survive this drought but not the next one. None of what you see is there. Those sparks from your campfire flying up. Did not just disappear. They are still hot as Mercury on a flyby. It does become undone, dark as bats, and always alone.